Dear Joel

Dear Joel,

You died on the 17th or 18th of March, I don’t know which.  They haven’t told me yet, haven’t looked yet – I guess they have other people to process before you.  I know that life is measured in energy, heartbeats, electrical impulses in the brain, but when I found you in the morning you were long dead, long gone, all your energy had gone.  I can’t cope with you being gone.

I tried talking to you, like prayers.  But the pale air is a terrible conductor of energy, and my thoughts just rattle around in my head, endlessly circling. I am writing this here, maybe some part of the network is reachable if you’re there.  Please I hope you’re there. People keep saying some crap about me being strong.  I am not.  I am so many little screaming pieces. Nothing fits together. I move like a pile of leaves, in agony. Always agony.

I pretend I am okay.  I am so not. I have lost you.  I have lost the house.  I had to give away the cats – lost them too, I lost the garden.  For a while there was movement in the apartment, cupboard doors opening, front door swinging open wide, but that has ended.  Was that you?  Were you here?  Did you leave?  The only thing keeping me here is the fact that I don’t know if you’ll be there.  I don’t know what comes after.  I wish you hadn’t gone.  I miss you horribly. I miss your screaming and shouting, your sarcasm.  I miss your humor, your intelligence, your charm.  I miss your cooking, I still can’t cook for shit.  I have lost so much weight my clothes fall off.   My every bone hurts.

I am having to pull out every last thing of the house and pick it apart to decide to keep or not.  People are breaking into the house to steal.  I was always safe before.  Even when you were in full rage.  Now I am alone, exposed.  I have to take care of myself.  I suck at taking care of myself.  I am so scared.  How do I eat?  How do I sleep? How the fuck am I supposed to do this?  I have two cars, a pile of stuff, a pile of bills, and a pile of me.  It is everything I can do to sort through it all.  I wrote programs to take care of bills.  I set alarms to make me get to work.  These machines are cold. I have to pretend you’re at home to get through the workday but if I slip I crack more and I bawl.  Endlessly.  Even now. I should be at the house sorting, shifting but… I can’t sleep and it is too dangerous to drive.  I am too dangerous.  I mostly don’t give a crap if I accidentally hurt me, but I am not intentionally masochistic.  I shouldn’t have listened to the doctor.  I should have worked myself to death two years ago, and then I could have waited for you.  I would have waited for you.  Why did I listen?  Christ I shouldn’t have listened. I am so sorry.  So stupid. I didn’t want to worry you, I didn’t want to leave you alone with noone to take care of you. Are you there?  Can you find your way back to me?  Please?  I know the thing was until death do us part but it is not enough.  I am not enough.  I never was.  I am disintegrating.  I pretend.  I even laugh.  People buy it if they don’t look close.  How the hell am I still alive? Why am I still breathing?  Who designed this life?  I should have dropped down dead when I found you.    Nothing should have to endure this agony.  Nothing and noone.  It’s like I am burning from inside, twisting and rending at the ends of all my bones.

I just woke up to the phone ringing and we were reading together and it was good and then I was awake and you’re fucking dead oh honey I am so sad you’re dead.  If I could I would fix it, I would get you back.  But I am so fucking useless.  I had to talk to the police about the burglary through a panic attack.  Officer wanted to come and GET me.  How would that help?  Nothing helps me but work work work.  Do something do something oh god don’t stop do something.  What do I do when its done?  Oh god what do I do?  Where are you?  I had to have them come get your body off the bed.  Your hands were black, your feet were blue.  Oh Joel you were so dead.  It is burned into my eyes.  Can you please not be dead anymore?  Is all you are just a jar of soot now?  A pile of laundry? A stack of boardgames?  Some cramped crabby chicken scratch on DM’s notes?  Old character sheets?  Dice?  Can you please come home?  Push into some one whose soul has left, hitchhike here and come to me. I will believe you. However you can.  You know I will know you.  I can’t live like this forever.   But I don’t know how to find you. Can you find me?



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